


I only want to be with you

by Margot_Lescargot



Series: Once more, from the top [5]
Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: (not that kind of cottage), Can read as standalone, Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, Escapism, Fluff, M/M, Post-FV, a weekend in the country, cottage in the country, established Seagale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24024406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margot_Lescargot/pseuds/Margot_Lescargot
Summary: Thomas Nightingale.  Alexander Seawoll.A weekend away in the country.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Series: Once more, from the top [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702759
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	I only want to be with you

**Author's Note:**

> The only thing to note - which ties in with another story here - is my hc that both Nightingale and Seawoll can speak a little Danish - Nightingale from his time in the FO before the war, and Seawoll from a childhood penfriend.  
> (And no real need to have read the others in this series before this one.)

_Thursday_

It was a slightly overcast late afternoon as the Jag nosed through the narrow main street of the village - not a hamlet, as Thomas reminded him, because it had a church. The church in question, a typical example of the provincial Norman type in the local stone appeared to the right as Alex's ‘phone - the Jag having nothing so common as satnav: _But why would I need it? I know my way around London_ – indicated that their destination was near. Thomas drew up outside a row of low cottages, as Alex looked up.

‘It says there should be a gate just here – there it is. That’s it.’

They alighted and stretched and opened the ludicrously twee garden gate that led up the path to their cottage. The key lock responded to the punch code, a key was revealed and they let themselves in.

‘Oh yes, this’ll do,’ said Alex, stepping inside and surveying the beamed rooms of a eighteenth-century cottage with a modern dining room and wetroom grafted on; not necessarily artfully, but usefully at least.

Thomas hovered on the threshold for several moments, with one hand on the doorframe, eyes half-closed. ‘Alright?’ said Alex tentatively.

He opened his eyes, and grinned. ‘Oh yes. Just checking, you know. Occupational habit. And all fine, as it goes.’

Alex walked back to the doorway and kissed him soundly. ‘We are going to have an excellent long weekend here. We have a cottage. We know it has a bed. And apart from that, there’s a pub less than 100 yards away.’

‘Do we ever need to leave?’ said Thomas.

‘I have absolutely no idea why we would.’

Thomas made to lean in again, but Alex pulled away, grinning. ‘Come on. Once we’ve got the bags in, it’s done.’

They retrieved their bags from the car and carried them up a low staircase at the back of the cottage to the first floor, Alex bent almost double, which revealed at the top a Regency blue-striped bedroom, in which a large bedstead with a white worked cotton cover practically filled the entire floorspace, and a pale-grey bathroom of equal size proudly containing a huge freestanding claw-footed bath.

‘Oh yes,’ said Alex reverently. ‘This will definitely do.’

Thomas hemmed and wrapped his arms around him from behind, and was in the very blatant process of angling him back in the direction of the large bed when there was a knock at the front door. They looked at each other in puzzlement, then shrugged and went back downstairs.

The door was on the latch, and a harried-looking white woman in her mid-forties was standing on the doorstep attempting to prevent two small tow-headed boys from charging into the cottage. All three were wearing very muddy wellington boots.

‘No. _No_! Because someone else is staying here now…. Because they are. We need to wait!’

Alex pulled open the door and looked inquiringly at her, Thomas behind him.

'Oh! Hello. Mr Seawoll is it?’ said the woman. ‘Sorry, I meant to be here when you arrived, but..’ and she cast a mock-fulminating look at the boys. ‘I got slightly waylaid. I’m the owner. We live across the way.’ She stuck out her hand with a bright smile, and shook theirs in turn. ‘I just wanted to pop over quickly to check you had everything you needed… and then I had company. Sorry.' She regarded her charges with affection. 'They consider this cottage their personal property, and so they want to meet everyone who stays here.’

‘There’s a secret garden!’ proclaimed the older boy. 

‘Is there now?’ said Alex.

‘Yes! With apple trees! And apples! But not now,’ he looked crestfallen for a moment and then brightened. ‘But there’s a swing. Do you want to go and see?’

‘Well we'll go and look at that tomorrow perhaps; we don’t have wellies on like you.‘

‘Oh yes, that was one of the things I meant to say,’ said the owner. ‘There are spare boots and oilskins and whatnot in the cupboard over there,’ and she pointed behind them. ‘Just borrow whatever you need while you’re here.’

‘Thank you, that’s kind,’ Thomas began, but was interrupted by the older boy as he started hopping about excitedly. ‘Welly-boots! Welly-boots! Put them on then. And come and see the secret garden.’

Alex turned questioningly to Thomas, who nodded.

‘You really don’t have to,’ said the owner. 

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Alex as Thomas began rummaging in the cupboard, emerging with two pairs of boots, and holding out one particularly large set. ‘I would have gone to look at it anyway, and now,’ he leant down to the older boy’s level, ‘we’ll have an expert to show us the way.’

‘Well if you’re sure. I can run through a few things as we go. It won’t take long.’

As they struggled into the boots, the younger child – who until then had taken refuge behind his mother’s legs, all the while staring owlishly at the visitors – spoke for the first time. ‘ _Mummy_. What they doing?’

‘The gentlemen are putting on welly-boots, darling. So they can come and see the secret garden.’

‘But Mummy. What they doing?’

She sighed. ‘They’re putting on welly-boots. Because it will be muddy.’

‘But _Mummy_ …?

‘Right then! Shall we? Go on Ralph, you can lead the way,’ and the older boy shot off around the back of the cottage. 

By the time they reached a small open space peopled by some old and twisted apple trees and a few loose boxes, at the end of a bramble strewn and very muddy path, the older boy had commandeered Alex as a fellow explorer and was dragging him manfully by the hand towards a home-made rope swing on one of the trees. Seeing this, the younger child struggled out of his mother’s arms and made off stolidly toward them. 

‘Well I think that’s everything,’ said the owner to Thomas. ‘But you’ve got our number if you need to ask anything. And don’t worry,’ she smiled, ‘After this, we won’t bother you again while you’re here. I’ll give them five minutes on the swing and then we’ll get out of your hair.’

‘It’s absolutely no bother at all, really,’ he said, ‘and thank you for checking in on us.’ They both turned at a delighted shout from where the two boys were attempting to push Alex who was now sitting on the swing.

‘He’s very good with them,’ said the owner, watching them all whoop as Alex started to swing. She turned to Thomas. ‘You don’t have any I take it?’

‘No,’ said Thomas with a smile.

‘And you’re not planning…?’

‘Oh good lord no! We’re far too old for that.’

‘Yes,’ said the owner with a sigh. ‘That’s what we said.’

*

By the time they got back to their cottage, and the owner had managed with difficulty to herd her sons away to their bathtime, it was early evening. They ruefully acknowledged that the rumbling of their empty stomachs meant that the lure of the large bed would have to be resisted in the short term and that dinner was a more pressing need.

Following a quick change of travel-stained clothing, they ambled the short distance down the road to the pub, which turned out to be a low-slung 17th century building. An honesty box stood on the opposite corner, with cottage garden flowers in jam jars and eggs from local chickens.

‘I didn’t realise places like this still existed,’ marvelled Thomas.

‘Well they do. Evidently,’ said Alex. ‘When was the last time you were out of London?’

‘Other than for work you mean? I couldn’t honestly tell you,’ he said thoughtfully.

Alex took him around the waist and squeezed. ‘Well, you’re here now.’

‘I am,’ he said. ‘Thank you,’ and they risked a quick kiss in the glowering dusk.

The pub was warm and half-full, regulars standing at the bar that ran through two narrow rooms in which Alex was obliged – inevitably – to stoop to avoid banging his head against the ceiling’s wooden beams. There was a table available, and there were menus which they accepted gratefully. They ate largely - and extremely well - as the tide of evening patrons, and their dogs, ebbed and flowed around them, all welcomed, all chatty.

When they could eat no more, they rose from the table where they had dined, and Thomas took a seat in the snug on an oak settle by the open fire. The pub dog, an old black Labrador of distinguished mien, graciously allowed him to share the warmth of the hearth and he returned the favour with a few well-placed ear scratches. He sat, as content and untroubled as he had felt for some time, and watched through half-closed eyes, meditatively scratching the dog, as Seawoll – Alex - his Alex, as he was unconsciously beginning to think of him - settled up for the food and ordered a couple of single malts, before falling into conversation with the landlord who had just emerged from the kitchen. Alex fitted in well here, he thought fondly, with his cords and his walking boots and his enormous sweater.

At last, he disengaged and came over, depositing two glasses on the table. ‘Sorry. I got chatting to Richard – the landlord – he’s from Manchester as well, so we fell in a bit. As you can imagine.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Thomas lazily. ‘This old fellow and I have been sharing reminiscences by the fire, have we not?’ he said addressing the dog, whose tail gave a sleepy wag.

Alex sat down, his knee brushing Thomas' and let out a sigh. 

‘Tell me again what it is that we do and why we do it.’

‘Well I do it because I don’t have a choice and you do it because you like shouting and ordering people around.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s right. You might have to keep reminding me of that while we’re here though.’ He smiled and knocked his knee against Thomas' who returned the gesture.

‘These and then back is it?’

‘Yes, I would think so, wouldn’t you?’ said Thomas with a look over his glass.

‘I am very, very full, I do need to tell you.’

‘You already have, and so you shall simply have to exert yourself in order to aid digestion. Think of it like going for a walk after a large lunch.’

Drinks finished, they bade farewell to the staff and set off on the short journey back to their cottage, the typical inky darkness of an English village without streetlights meaning that they could do so hand in hand. 

_Friday_

Thomas woke relatively late with the scents of morning and the song of some riotously happy birds filtering through the open window. Alex was evidently up already, which was no great surprise – as a general rule, he needed to ingest caffeine as soon as possible after waking, although he did have a few specific exceptions to that rule. He smiled at the thought and stretched languourously like a cat, enjoying the feel of the thick and heavy cotton bedlinen crackling against his skin. He put his hands behind his head and stared out at the small patch of sky visible through the bedroom casement. The sun was shining and a few huffy clouds chased each other across a pale blue sky. It looked to be a perfect early spring morning, and was completed by the unusual, yet wholly welcome, feeling of having nothing to do and nowhere to be and absolutely no constraints on one’s time or activities for several days to come.

Apart from the physical, he conceded, and after one last stretch, swung his legs out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Perfunctory ablutions completed, he located his dressing gown and went in search of Alex.

He found him, wearing nothing more than a sweater and his underwear, seated in one of the chintz armchairs in the skylit dining room, bare feet settled in another, a cup of coffee – and the pot - at his elbow. He was reading a creased paperback book and frowning at it slightly. It appeared, from where Thomas was standing at the kitchen doorway, to be a Penguin Modern Classic by the look of the spine, and not one of the more lurid detective thrillers he was usually to be found with.

He smiled at the anomaly and reflected that Alex sometimes seemed as many contradictions as Thomas felt himself to be. He was a large, muscular man, but he was capable of the lightest touch he had ever known. He shouted and bawled at his underlings, but he knew them all, their fears and their weaknesses, and he helped them to face and overcome them. He was a leader, with a job to do, and, more often than not, no time for the niceties, but all who knew him knew they could count on him and that he had their back absolutely.

He studied him from the doorway, and - in this unusual instance of quiet, this moment of unforced stillness - he took the time to consider the two of them. He acknowledged that he had never felt quite so secure, so able to be himself – so _truly_ himself – as he did with Alex. And it wasn’t just about the bulk and presence of him - and Thomas here smiled a secret smile to himself, because the man was a damned fine specimen, of that there was no doubt - it was more than that. He gave off an indefinable air of solidity, of permanence, of certainty. No matter where one had been, or what one had done, he was there. Quizzical, but understanding. Unchanging. A rock against which his doubts and disillusions battered vainly; assailed and were dashed. That was not an easy feat to achieve.

And he cared about Thomas, that much was evident; cared about _him_. After a lifetime of the adulation which isolated, and the love which suffocated sometimes and demanded recompense, and the fear and distrust which had trailed him since the war, here was something different, _someone_ different. Someone who valued him and was to be valued no less in their own right; who saw him clearly, saw his flaws and virtues both, and who didn’t shy away from the former – questioned them, when it was appropriate, but still accepted them as part of his intrinsic make-up.

He still, even now, wasn’t sure what it was he had to offer Alex, or why he had chosen Thomas over everyone else that he might have had. But he had done so, and Thomas had ceased to question his good fortune and elected rather to be thankful for it.

Dwelling comfortably on these thoughts, he pushed open the kitchen door. Hearing the creak of the hinges, Alex looked up and brandished the book at him. ‘Have you read this?’

‘Oh, er,’ said Thomas, angling his head to read the title. ‘No, I don’t believe so.’

‘I found it on the bookshelves. Pam’s always going on about this and the other one. Says they’re the funniest books written in English. I’ve been at it for nearly three-quarters of an hour now,’ he sounded almost indignant, ‘but I can’t say I get it. It’s just a load of posh people growing up in the 'twenties. And being weird.’ He lifted his face as Thomas bent over the chair to kiss him. ‘Morning, trouble. All well? I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Mmm,’ said Thomas, leaning over the back of the chair and looking out though the windows at the cottage garden. ‘Is it me, or is it actually pretty idyllic here?’

‘It’s not bad,’ said Alex grinning. ‘Sit down and I’ll put the kettle on. We will have to go and buy food, by the way. I looked in the bag Molly sent and it’s a bit… eclectic.’

‘Very well. There’s a decent farm shop nearby, I believe. We can call in. What did you want to do today?’

‘You mean apart from you?’ called Alex from the kitchen.

‘Yes. Apart from me.’

‘I don’t really mind.’ He appeared in the doorway. ‘I definitely don’t want to go haring about the place - that’s not the point of being here - but it’s too nice a day to stay in. How about if we plan a decent-ish walk for tomorrow, and find somewhere nearby today?’

Thomas had spotted and opened an OS Landranger map for the local area and was studying it. ‘We’re pretty close to Aldeburgh. I’d quite like to go there; there’s a Britten museum in his old house, and then we could get a short walk in to Thorpeness and back.’

‘I’ll pass on the Britten, if it’s all the same, but I’ll join you for the walk.’

‘Really? Not a fan?’

‘Not after Covent Garden five years ago, no.’

‘But… oh. I see. Well never mind. It was just a thought.’

‘No. You go. I’ll buy a ‘paper and sit and look at the sea. You can come and find me when you’re done, it won't be a hardship.’

‘Well if you’re sure.’ Alex came in with a steaming mug of tea which Thomas took gratefully. ‘Thank you, darling,’ he said and kissed him.

‘No problem. And should we maybe think about moving then? I found a loaf, so there’s toast for breakfast, but that will only get me so far.’

‘Of course. I’ll drink this and then shower. Have you looked at the wetroom? Is it fit for purpose?’

‘It is. But it doesn’t get the sun in the mornings, and – all that tile – it’s a bit on the chilly side.’

‘Indeed?’ said Thomas drily.

‘Absolutely,’ said Alex innocently. ‘I think it might be tolerable if we huddled together for warmth.’

Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘”Tolerable?”’ He stood and opened the door to the wetroom. ‘Huddled together for warmth, you say? Under a recently-installed modern shower?’

‘Take it or leave it,’ said Alex.

*

Ten minutes or so later, the elderly lady in the adjoining cottage was slowly but methodically tying up the sweet pea plants in her garden and was surprised to hear laughter - two people laughing, she realised – emanating from the open window next door. She puzzled - as she carefully knotted twine around the delicate stems – what on earth they could possibly find so funny in a shower room. She shrugged. They were down from London, she’d heard, which probably accounted for it.

*

Thomas strolled towards the seafront, following instructions. He spotted Alex sitting overlooking the sea, and smiled to see an unruffled copy of _The Guardian_ on the bench next to him while he read instead the paperback he had evidently brought with him from the cottage. They began to walk along the beach, and Alex wasn’t so traumatised by Britten that they couldn’t both take a closer look at the large shell-shaped sculpture that paid tribute to him. After admiring it from all angles, there was no one around to prevent him from succumbing to the urge to press Alex against the grooved metal on the seaward-side and kiss him ardently, in the wind and the sea-spray. Because that was an opportunity that did not often present itself, and he had begun to feel again the joy and the boldness of his earlier years.

They walked the short distance to Thorpeness and back, along the beach, with the huge white globe of Sizewell hovering ominously in the distance, and then had to race the last few hundred yards back to the Jag, laughing, through a sudden squalling rain shower. Once back at their cottage, they changed out of their damp clothes and Alex roasted a breathtakingly expensive chicken in a somewhat temperamental oven, while Thomas plotted a walking route for the following day on the map he’d found. 

The temperature had dropped significantly by the time they’d eaten; it was still only early spring and the cottage’s heating was of necessity relatively primitive. That this was an habitual issue was evidenced by the vast amount of throws and blankets scattered around the living room. Foregoing these, by unanimous consent it was agreed to investigate whether the impressive bathtub would accommodate them both.

‘I hope the floor’s been reinforced,’ said Alex, eyeing the bathtub dubiously as it filled. But, whether it had been or not, it – and they – remained on the correct floor. It wasn’t quite as large as Alex's tub, but they both managed to fit into it, Thomas drowsing over the _Telegraph_ crossword at one end, and Alex evidently finishing his book at the other, if a stifled exclamation was anything to go by.

Bathing completed, it was further agreed that the only sensible way to keep warm was to go directly to bed, which they did, where they made love, slowly and unhurriedly, in the soft yellow glow of a small lamp, with murmured exchanges and the occasional gasp or moan, as the bell of the village church whirred and chimed the hour.

_Saturday_

Alex awoke and checked his watch on the nightstand. Past eight o’clock, he saw with surprise. They’d only been there for two nights and already his body clock was adjusting to this more leisurely rhythm of life. What an unbelievably fucking good idea this had been; and why had he never done it before? All previous holidays had been either instigated by then-boyfriends - and he’d left the planning to them, so it had generally involved charging round with a guidebook - or medically mandated. This was the first break he could remember where everything was just… right. He felt as relaxed as he had in years too. He smiled wryly. He knew himself well enough to attribute some of that ease to the company he was keeping, as much as to the atmosphere of – when all was said and done – a relatively unremarkable Suffolk village.

He looked over to where Thomas was still sleeping, hair tousled and curling, one hand tucked under the pillow, and felt the increasingly familiar glow in his chest as he surveyed him. He reached out and ran a careful finger down one cheekbone; he stirred slightly, but didn’t wake. He smiled; he knew by now that it took little less than an actual explosion to rouse Thomas from sleep if he considered himself off-duty.

Nightingale. I mean really. Who would have thought? But it worked. He couldn’t say exactly why, but it was enough for him that it did. They’d never discussed it – obviously – but it was the same for Thomas he was certain. It was easy, but it wasn’t commonplace. They relied on each other; they took the support and the strength each drew from the other for granted, but they didn’t take the fact of each other for granted. There was a difference, he meditated, as he turned to look at the patch of sky through the window and listened to Thomas' soft breathing. 

They were, as anyone who even remotely knew them would say, very, very different. But there were similarities at a more fundamental level, he thought, as Sahra had once hinted to him in a slightly embarrassed way. And it was those similarities – it had to be, right? – that meshed them together so well. Like the gears on an Austin Riley, as Thomas would no doubt frame it, he thought affectionately. 

But the differences? - they probably didn’t hurt either. It was like any puzzle: the pieces weren’t identical but they still fitted together and made the complete picture. He rolled his eyes at himself for being a pretentious wanker, but still, there was truth in it. And he was, he thought, looking over at Thomas again, still the best-looking bastard he’d ever laid eyes on. Which also didn’t hurt.

Perhaps it was the relatively early night they’d had, and the lateness – for him – of his waking, but he felt no need to get up and go downstairs. He luxuriated in the warmth of the bed, the peace of the general surroundings, and the sight and proximity of his lover – for that’s what he was, no question. His handsome, talented, kind, clever, heroic - could he say “heroic”? Fuck it. He was lying in bed, talking to himself, he could say whatever he bloody well liked - his heroic, then, funny, courageous lover… He caught himself. Hmmm. That pretty much answered the question that had been lurking at the back of his mind since they’d arrived at the cottage. Yeah, he thought. This was the right time; today maybe. And he smiled to himself again.

Thomas woke some time later, while he was still staring out of the window and thinking pretty thoughts. After a fairly prolonged, and-good-morning-to-you interlude, which involved the entanglement somehow of every limb, Alex ordered him out of bed and into the shower, pointing out that it was almost 9am and if they wanted to have a chance of finishing the walk they’d planned they'd need to start it at least some time in the morning. (And if he took the opportunity of Thomas' showering to scour the cottage’s bookshelves and locate his quarry with a subdued note of triumph then so be it.)

*

They parked up at Orford not much more than an hour or so later, and after buying provisions for lunch at a deceptively arch-looking pink-painted bakery, walked down to the quay and picked up the coastal path, heading south. Almost immediately the old radar traps were visible on the other side of the inlet and abandoned WW2 pillboxes dotted the path. Thomas cast a look or two across the water and became quiet. But aside from a ‘Do you want to…?’ answered by a ‘No, I don’t think so. Not today,’ he left it. There was a time to press, and a time to leave well alone, and as Thomas said, this was a day for the latter. Soon enough the body of water opened out, the path wound on and the detritus of war was left behind. Thomas' mood lifted accordingly and they picked up their conversation and carried on.

The sun shone and a hardy breeze blew. They followed the path and, in time, the tidal creek and reed beds gave way to a wide shingle beach and rolling waves to their left. Alex caught himself wondering absently, as they walked along chatting of this and that, if the colour of the sea matched Thomas' eyes, and then he _really_ had to have a word with himself.

There was something about the landscape they had reached by this point - the flat expanse of shingle and sea kale; the isolated white-washed houses. The vastness of the sky - that reminded him of pictures he had seen of Scandinavia, some on the covers of the thrillers he read dismissively from time to time. And that was when the idea popped into his head. Really? Could he? (He’d looked it up during an idle moment, weeks ago, not entirely sure why he was doing it at the time but not inquiring too closely into his motives.)

They carried on walking as he pondered this and related matters. Then both came to a natural halt as they rounded a corner of the coastline, taking in the landscape that lay before them, as another river meandered seawards, the sun splintering on the surface of the water, a patchwork of fields on the other side, and the late blossom nodding in the wind.

Fuck it. Life was short. Or it wasn’t, apparently, in some cases. Either way, there was no point in fucking around; you had to grab what you could when you had the chance. What he was about to do was wanky in the extreme, granted, but plausible deniability be fucked.

‘Hey, there is something,’ he said as Thomas was about to start walking again.

‘Oh yes?’ said Thomas, turning to him.

‘ _Jeg elsker dig_ ’ he said, with a fair crack at what he remembered to be the correct pronunciation.

Thomas looked puzzled for a moment, then identified the correct language and began to translate it. He knew that he had when he saw the smile.

‘Is that ok?’ he couldn’t stop himself asking.

Thomas' smile grew broader. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course it is. I do, too… love you, I mean,’ came the response, and he felt as if his face would crack so widely was he grinning.

‘Ok then,’ was all he managed to get out, the presence of some approaching dog-walkers precluding anything further, and they both set off again. Nothing else was needed but a quick glance at Thomas confirmed his face was wearing the same idiotic grin as his own.

They walked on and found a sheltered spot near one of the Martello towers that seemed to mark this stretch of coast and sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing sandwiches and a bottle of water in comfortable silence, until Thomas turned his head to look at Alex.

‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘for saying what you said earlier.’

Alex shrugged slightly. ‘That’s ok. I know it’s not your style, but it needed saying.’

‘Oh,’ said Thomas. ‘No. I don’t think you ought to think that. It’s not that at all; merely that it’s been a very, very long time. As you know.’

‘I know,’ and he slipped an arm around Thomas' waist where they sat.

‘And you’re absolutely right, of course. It does need saying.' He paused. 'I love you Alex. Of course I do.’

He smiled. Again. ‘I love you too, trouble,’ he said and tightened the arm about his waist, and they sat there together, staring out across the sea.

*

In time, they continued their walk to its planned end point at Bawdsey, and picked up the lift that took them back to Orford and the Jag. By the time they got back to their cottage it was early evening again and an unusual shyness had crept over them both.

‘Should we mark… things, do you think?’ said Thomas, as they changed out of their walking gear. ‘Would that be appropriate? Too much?’ he added diffidently. He cleared his throat. ‘I really haven’t the least idea what one is supposed to do in this situation these days.’

‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ said Alex seriously, coming to stand in front of him, still half-undressed, ‘but I can’t think of very much that’s more important than this. Can you?’

‘No! Of course not.’ They smiled at each other, then embraced, and in that moment everything flipped back to normal. 

‘So..?’ said Thomas, as Alex prepared to pull on another sweater from his collection.

‘So, yes, of course we mark it. We go to the pub.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course we do. The pub. How could I have missed that?’ he said drily. ‘And yet..’ and with one fluid movement he pulled Alex down onto the bed with him, and it was another good hour before the pub received their custom.

*

It was Saturday night, and the sleepy local of a weeknight was now jumping. There were no tables available, but they were able, by dint of good timing, to procure the only two stools at the end of the bar.

‘Alright here?’ said Alex.

‘Yes,’ said Thomas, but neither of them were paying very much attention to their surroundings.

In time, they were attended to by a slightly older barmaid. ‘Would it be terrible,’ said Thomas with a grin, ‘but I have the damnedest feeling to order Champagne. Because I can. Would that bother you? Here I mean?’ and he cast a look around at the other sweater-clad, dog-walking, very white, very middle-class patrons.

‘Trouble, you can do whatever the fuck you like – sorry,’ he said to the barmaid who waved it away, ‘and anyone who has a problem with it answers to me. No, answers to both of us, obviously,’ and he grinned.

‘In which case,’ said Thomas, turning to the barmaid. ‘We would like a bottle of your finest Champagne please.’

‘We only have the one sort,’ she replied doughtily. ‘There’s not that many that orders it, to be fair.’

‘Then it remains your finest. So a bottle, thank you. And whatever you’re having.’

‘Well then, thank you,’ she said, with an answering grin. ‘And you’ll be wanting these,’ and she handed them menus for bar food. 

They made a random selection of food, and then promptly forgot what they had ordered.

The barmaid put down an ice bucket in front of them, and opened a bottle with a professionally-subdued pop, before pouring out two half-glasses. ‘There you go, my dears,’ she said with a knowing smile before bustling away.

‘I think she thinks we’ve got engaged,’ said Alex in a low voice.

Thomas stared after her. ‘You may be right. But,’ he leaned forward and addressed himself to Alex again, ‘I can’t suppose she’s that far off. Not really. What I mean is, it’s still a commitment, a declaration of sorts, if you will. Not quite of the same societal import, I grant you, but present, nevertheless. And especially given the intransigencies of earlier times. Wouldn’t you say?’

Alex smiled at him fondly. ‘I would, yes. But I probably wouldn’t need quite so many long words,’ and then yelped as Thomas kicked him swiftly on the shin.

_Sunday_

They woke to dark grey skies and the sound of rain spattering against the window. 

It rained. All day and incessantly. As British weather, especially in early spring, is prone to do. There was nothing to get up for, and quite a lot to stay in bed for, so that’s what they did. 

They managed to rise and dress at lunchtime and hurry through the rain to the pub, both sheltering under an ancient mackintosh unearthed in the boot cupboard, the cottage curiously not yielding a single umbrella. There they steamed gently by the fire before putting themselves outside the single largest Sunday roast lunch Alex had ever seen, and which Thomas noted might even rival that of Molly at full pelt. Afterwards, they were obliged to sit and rest for some time, as Thomas leafed through seemingly endless sections of the Sunday newspapers, and Alex, having given up all pretence, was avidly reading the second book that he’d found muttering something about “unexpected representation”.

Having digested to some degree, they went back to their cottage, back through the rain, stripped off their damp clothes and went back to bed, remaining there for the rest of the day, except when, occasionally, obliged to get up, due to physical necessities or – in one case – cramp.

_Monday_

‘I know we’ve hardly been here, but I’ll be genuinely sorry to leave this place.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ said Thomas, taking the bags from Alex and putting them into the boot of the Jag. ‘It has been… Sorry, I can’t think of an appropriate word at the moment.’

‘No. I know.’

‘But we will come back. I promise you that.’ They smiled, and their eyes held.

‘Right then,’ said Alex with a sigh, once their unspoken conversation was over. ‘I’ll go and do a last check and then lock up. Have you got everything?’

‘Yes, I believe so. We’ll need to get petrol once we get on the A12, but at this time of day we ought to be back in town by mid-afternoon.’

‘Yeah, don’t remind me,’ and he stomped back up the path to their cottage. 

Thomas was giving the Jag's oil a perfunctory check when he was hailed from across the road and saw the cottage’s owner walking towards him, accompanied by her elder boy. 

‘You’ve just caught us,’ he said to her, ‘we’re about to head off. Hello there,’ he added, addressing the boy.

‘Where’s your boyfriend?’ demanded the child.

‘He’s, er, he’s just locking the door of the cottage, he’ll be along in a moment.’

‘Was everything alright for you?’ said the owner. ‘Did you find everything you need?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes we did, thank you.’

‘I’ve just put the key back in the box,’ said Alex approaching. ‘Is that ok?’

‘Yes, of course. Ralph here has something that he wanted to give to you before you leave,’ and she cast an apologetic look at Thomas.

Alex squatted next to the child who handed him a many-folded piece of paper with great ceremony and proceeded to explain it in detail - albeit in a low voice that only Alex could hear - as his mother looked on proudly and Thomas watched with amusement. When he was done, Alex shook his hand solemnly, before they made their farewells and got into the car.

‘What did he give you?’ asked Thomas, as the Jag’s engine burst into life.

‘A treasure map,’ said Alex examining it with a smile. ‘And a very detailed one at that. He only drew the one, but he did say that we could share it.’

‘Oh that’s alright,’ said Thomas, checking the road and pulling out. ‘I don’t need a map. I’ve already found it.’

After a beat, Alex let out a guffaw. ‘Oh, you smooth bastard!’ he said.

Thomas took his eyes off the road momentarily to grin at him. ‘I do my best.’  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to utrinque-paratus for an inspired description of Seawoll that I wish I had thought of first and which I have drawn on here with her permission.  
> 


End file.
